Others might have passed through the area at a faster pace, but not Volo. This was in no way due to the potential speed of his steed, but rather by the personal choice of the rider himself. The master traveler was a stickler when it came to local flavor and color, and he had no desire to rush through it at the risk of missing something, even if the flavor of the landscape was bland and its color was gray.

I must remember to include a warning about brigands in the book, the master traveler noted. After all, not all travelers are as observant-or as adept at handling such situations-as myself.

Sometime past midday, the master traveler came in sight of his destination: the isolated monastery known as the Retreat. The leisurely pace with which he had traveled obviously caused him to arrive while the various hermits of the place were on their lunchtime break deep within the monastic walls, as no one was in sight in the fields around the old stronghold.

I guess I should have sent word to wait lunch on me, the master traveler reflected with a chuckle.

Maybe if I can catch the eye of one of the members on watch, a place will already be set for me by the time I arrive.

A chill unlike the one caused by the Moonsea climatic conditions passed down the spine of the master traveler.

That's odd, he thought. No one seems to be on watch. Even during meals there is always someone on watch.

Volo put his two fingers up to his mouth and let loose with a birdcall almost identical to that of the Bowl-headed Greenwood, a bird indigenous to Shadowdale. He repeated the call, listening carefully for a reply.

None came.

He immediately realized that something was not right. Where could they be? he thought to himself. The elders would always respond to a Harper signal of distress, even when it isn't given by a Harper. The network of secret agents dedicated to preserving balance in Faerun were longtime allies of the old mages therein. Surely the Harpers could never fall out of favor with them. Where could they all have gone, and why wasn't anyone responding to his call?

Quickly reaching into his cloak to assure himself of the readiness of yet another blade, Volo urged the horse onward at a slower pace, eyes and ears wide open and ready for danger.

The gate of the Retreat had been left wide open, and though the rocky terrain obscured any tracks that might have otherwise been left, the dried spoor of numerous horses was still evident by the series of rails that were normally used for the tethering of steeds.

Volo dismounted, and, with reins still in hand in case he had to make a quick return to the saddle and an even faster egress, approached the evidential detritus, and stooped down to get a closer look at it. As I recall, the master gazetteer (who also considered himself to be a more than adequate detective) reflected, it rained just two days ago. Whatever caused the Retreat to be evacuated must have occurred since then, or else this fertilizer would have been washed away.

Righting himself and stepping carefully so as to avoid treading in the evidence at hand (or underfoot, as was the case), Volo approached the gate.

Before he had even gained entrance, he realized that he had been mistaken about the Retreat's evacuation, for there, just inside the gate, was the not quite two-day-old corpse of the Thayan exile who had been known as Donal Loomis. As two rats were feasting in the orifices of the elder's face, Volo saw no need to bend over for a closer examination. He knew the monk was dead and saw little reason to further turn his travel-worn stomach.

With a dagger in hand, the brave gazetteer stepped over the body, and ventured further into the stronghold that had been known as the Retreat. The further he went the more bodies he found, each gutted like a pig for a Mayday feast. The master traveler used his free hand to bring a neckerchief up to his nose and mouth to help fight back the gall that was rebelling in his stomach. Maintaining his composure, he tried to piece together what must have happened.

I would immediately jump to the conclusion that the Retreat had been attacked by some foreign force, he thought, but there seems to be no sign of a struggle. My second theory, he went on, would have been that they were the victims of a surprise attack, perhaps in the middle of the night, but all of the bodies are attired in their day wear, and the gate and stronghold walls show no signs of being breached, jimmied, or assailed. Whoever engineered this horrible bloodbath must have been granted entrance by the elders in broad daylight, and therefore were assumed by the elder on watch to have been either allies, or harmless. I guess the elder on watch was mistaken.

Scanning the residue of slaughter, Volo thought he recognized one of the corpses. He was about to stoop to get a closer look when he barely saw a moving blur out of the corner of his eye, and reacted in a second, raising his dagger to a defensive posture.

He was half a second too slow.

The master traveler felt the coolness of a steel blade against his windpipe, and heard an authoritative voice say, "Drop it, or breathe blood."

Realizing he had no alternative if he wished to live long enough to get to the bottom of the bloodbath, and to eventually complete his guide to the Moonsea, Volo dropped his dagger, and prepared to do whatever the other visitor to the Retreat requested.

He felt the blade pressing harder against his throat.

In the High Blade's study in the Tower of the Wyvern:

The High Blade rose late that morning, having spent a strenuous night with the Thayan serpent that months ago he had accepted as his wife. He sought out the privacy of his study as he wished to avoid all of the court, social, and political commitments that occurred whenever he and his consort were reunited. Though he was more than aware of the necessity of such obligations and functions, he nonetheless desired time to more adequately formulate his plans against his she-devil wife who had sought to neutralize him. Wishing a report on his most important prisoner, Selfaril sent for Rickman.

The captain of the Hawks responded immediately.

"You summoned, sire," said the one-eyed Hawk.

"How is my brother?" the High Blade inquired, not making eye contact with his second in command.

"As you left him, my lord," Rickman responded, surprised at Selfaril's use of the moniker. "My man in the Cloaks informs me that, given normal circumstances, the mask should have dampened all of his magical abilities to non-existence by now. He is now no more of a mage than either you or I."

"What a pity for him after all of those years of study," Selfaril observed in an emotionless monotone.

"Of course, the mask also serves the other purpose of obscuring his identity from prying eyes, as you yourself planned, sire," added Rickman.

"So that no one will ever know that I have a brother," the High Blade interrupted, completing the thought of his right-hand man, and once again surprising the Hawk with his use of the fraternal label. Changing the subject, Selfaril said, "You know Rickman, for most people, family is their main source of comfort and survival. I, on the other hand, never knew my mother, killed my father, have imprisoned my brother, and am plotted against by my wife."

"Most people are inferior pawns whose very existence is only validated for as long as they are useful to superior men such as yourself, High Blade," Rickman asserted.

"Indeed," Selfaril agreed absently.

Rickman remained in place, waiting for the High Blade to issue new orders, but Selfaril remained silent, as if preoccupied with other matters. Growing uncomfortable with his master's prolonged silence, the captain of the Hawks hazarded a question.